


Boldness

by Missy



Category: Burn Notice
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Gunplay, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-05
Updated: 2012-02-05
Packaged: 2017-10-30 16:03:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/333530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missy/pseuds/Missy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fiona takes a moment to distract Michael in a risky place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boldness

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Porn Battle: Prompt: Burn Notice, Fiona Glenanne/Michael Westen, guns, heights, pain

Michael Westen was a pain junkie. He would never admit this aloud; to his ear the notion sounded absurd, and weakened his aura of control. But Fiona Glenanne knew. And she exploited it at every chance she could.

Concrete bit into his bare back as she shoved his shoulders into the bare wall with every bit of strength she possessed. Michael grunted. “Fi, let me get my pants…” he heard the material rip and popped open an eye to see Fi smiling like a pirate as she spat out his zipper, sheathing her buck knife. “ _Fi…”_

“Must you whine now, Michael?” She reached for his cock with both hands and rubbed her silky cheek against the length of his shaft, her creamy flesh sliding upward, her fingers barely caressing his painfully swollen flesh. “Mmm…so big and warm,” she muttered, and popped the head between her cherry lips.

Michael’s head fell back on a groan of defeat, his hips squirming until she punched his hips, silencing him with a gasp. Fiona bobbed against the useless grip of his fingers, and he lost time and sweat in the steam heat of her throat. Fiona gargled out a laugh in response to his desperate groans, flexing her throat muscles around his shaft – she didn’t even have to use her hands on him, already he stood on the edge between pain and release.

The tip of a red nail scraped his perineum, making his hips buck forward into her touch, his eyes fly open. She wouldn’t, couldn’t do that to him…

Fi didn’t. She came up off his cock with a groan, one little hand working him from tip to balls vigorously, with friction that might otherwise hurt his swollen-to-bursting flesh but from Fiona’s hand it felt so good that his knees quivered and his lips parted in a choked cry. She whispered his name, and he forced his unfocused gaze to meet hers. “Do you trust me?”

He heard a ‘click’; a keen stare told him that her other hand was elsewhere occupied, a cool butterfly kiss informing him that it was holding her primed .45 to his balls.

Her mouth came down, down, on his desperately needy penis, stealing the choice from Michael’s hands, making them twin victims of insanity, of passion. 

And Michael knew why he acquiesced. No one sucked cock like Fiona Glenanne. No one strove to please him this way, even if it meant that she was pleasing herself on his body. Unlocked from the cage of propriety, his hips jerked wildly against her cupping hand in an uneven tattoo of desperate lust and Fi tickled his balls again with the barrel, running an inch of the cool muzzle back and forth against the space between them, her thoat collapsing around his cock with a wheeze before coming all the way back up.

They locked eyes.

Then she bit the tip of his cock with her perfect white teeth and he bellowed like a wounded man, jetting a steady stream of come instantly over her candy heart-colored tongue, the mock-submissive wound of her mouth.

There was perfect, utter quiet. Not a bird sang, and it took Michael a moment to remember why he could only hear the wind whistling by his ears.

His eyes opened at her gentler touch. Fiona was on her feet, buttoning his fly, packing his tender prick back into his slacks.

“Well,” she declared, wiping a spot of displaced lipgloss from her lower lip, “shall we go down?”

Michael gulped in a lungful of fresh air and peered over her shoulder. Below them, a forty-foot incline loomed. The balcony was solid under their feet and would remain so, as long as the terrorists didn’t find them. They would have to rappel forty feet down to where Sam was waiting –likely impatiently. He cleared his throat and buttoned his fly while Fiona smirked at him – knowingly, adoringly, in preparation for the satisfaction he’d give her in a few short minutes.

“After you,” he said, pulling his sunglasses into place.


End file.
